


A Study In Evolution

by LimpBiskit



Category: Sherlock [BBC]
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-06
Updated: 2010-11-06
Packaged: 2017-10-14 08:13:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/147204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LimpBiskit/pseuds/LimpBiskit





	A Study In Evolution

  
  
  
  
**Entry tags:**  
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[complete](http://limpbiskit.livejournal.com/tag/complete), [fanfic](http://limpbiskit.livejournal.com/tag/fanfic), [rated:r](http://limpbiskit.livejournal.com/tag/rated%3Ar), [sherlock](http://limpbiskit.livejournal.com/tag/sherlock)  
  
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**Fic, Hooray isn't it great.**  
  


First time writing for the fandom. Don't kill me just yet, huh?

  
Title: A Study In Evolution  
Fandom: Sherlock [BBC]  
Pairing: John/Sherlock  
Rating: R  
Warnings: Male/Male relationship, adult themes, language.

John Watson was, in a single word, pessimistic.

   
He had learned again and again that very little in the world was ever truly right or _fair_ , let alone the people themselves. Even now, the crowd that trudged around him was likely half-filled with adulterers, thieves and potential murderers, but none of that would really have shocked him.  
   
No, people weren't his problem.  
   
A **person** was.  
   
One damnably irritating, maniacal, antisocial, blindingly _brilliant_ -  
   
He cut himself off at that line of thought, disgusted that no matter how determined he was to at least think ill of the man, the adjectives he conjured never seemed to remain inside the mold of detraction. The very idea was patently ridiculous, but he could almost give in to baseless speculation that perhaps a quick slap in the mouth would quell a bit of the biting commentary that the younger man was so inappropriately disposed to unleashing as he worked his quicksilver mind through the tangles of mundane hows and whys.  
   
And wouldn't that have changed rather a lot of their supposed relationship dynamic.  
   
He could have laughed, too, knowing full well that he must surely not be the first, tenth or even the hundredth person to contemplate drastic action against the other.  
   
But no. More likely the man would unquestioningly accept the antagonism, as he accepted the daily barbs flung at him as he narrowed those uncannily pale eyes into near-frightening focus, his singular coercion of fact from the inanimate superseding all response to outside stimuli.  
   
Glancing at his tremorless hands, empty of both cane or weapon, he did laugh, startling the woman just passing in front of where he sat on the park bench. Perhaps there was something to be said for the rejection of some small edge of reality, when even he could find some measure of peace in simply existing.  
   
XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX  
   
In another word, John Watson was bewildered.  
   
With this foolhardy child of a man before him, those damned eyes wide with a glee that could only be called fiendish, he was reminded that no, the world was not fair, and hardly ever kind. Why on Earth would he want to leave his comfortable chair, laptop warming his upper thighs to just the perfect temperature as he typed, and go pelting off into the uncomfortable, imperfect, rainy outdoors in search of bodyparts best left unmentioned?  
   
But of course he would.  
   
The singsong motivator "Extremely dangerous!" had barely left the brunette's mouth before he was shrugging into his coat, ignoring the nearby umbrella as he knew there would be no chance of using it in their headlong dash into the London night.  
   
What was a little bout of pneumonia, when compared to the thrilling horror of just what mortal men were capable of, or what ingenious clarity the already-absent detective was currently prepared to bring to light?  
   
This time his hands were empty, but his holster was conspicuously heavy against his hip as he jogged to catch up with the vanishing swirl of coat-tails in the fog.  
   
If anyone heard his breathless laughter, he never knew it.  
   
The Game was on.  
   
XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX  
   
Sometimes, even an accomplished blogger was at a loss for words.  
   
Watching his ..flatmate? Colleague? Friend? interrogate the dead body at their feet, he was struck dumb by the intricate leaps and bounds that the other's mind drew into almost-sense within mere instants of their arrival. The gunshot to the back he understood, murdered while in the midst of flight, but how in blazes had Sherlock worked out that he would still be clutching his seemingly worthless prize to his breast, and when had he seen enough of the slender booklet to garner not only that it belonged to a female, but that said female was someone that the dead man knew?  
   
He shook his head, stifling a totally uncalled for grin.  
   
Their Landlady was right, it wasn't the least bit decent. _He_ wasn't decent.  
   
And neither was the excitedly gesturing man by his side, his long fingers outlining the crime as if he hoped to trap the images of his own mind for the rest of the group to see, as he saw it so pristine and unencumbered in his thoughts.  
   
John snorted to himself, taking note of the mixture of raised eyebrows and confused faces around them.  
   
No, they didn't, _couldn't_ see it. Would most likely never see anything the way this utterly astonishing slip of a man did, the entire world playing to his strengths and hiding his weaknesses to the point of inexistence.  
   
But he had them.  
   
They both did.  
   
One, unable to set himself free of a lifetime of inhibition, days and weeks and years of _this is how it is, and always will be, no such things as forever or unconditional-_

   
Another lost in the workings of the greatest marvel of maybe all time, his own wit and whim setting him as far apart from the common cogs of the earthly wheel as if he were shouting transcendental truths from the dark side of the moon.  
   
But then that wild-eyed face turned to him in near supplication, and he knew. He could understand the gist if not the entirety of what this spectre of a man wished to convey, and when he nodded tersely in agreement the missing pieces mattered even less than what they would have for dinner next Monday.  
   
What mattered was the gratitude, the sheltered pride in his own developing knowledge, and a hundred ineffable things that swam beneath the surface of those eyes, and that achingly innocent smile that only stretched the brunette's lips for a bare instant..  
   
And since it wasn't decent, Sherlock laughed for him.  
   
XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX  
   
And at other times, there simply were no words.  
   
Recalling the look of astounded, crushed betrayal on the younger man's face when he'd stepped through the doorway, bedecked in explosive hidden finery, he was momentarily glad for the sibilant whisper in his ear.  
   
What could he have said, when confronted with that flickering instant of unexpected pain?  
   
Even if he hadn't been the one to commit the crimes that he knew the other was struggling to match to him, he should never have been taken so easily, stripped of everything but his use as a lever to harm this inexplicably delicate creature.  
   
In his haste to reveal the deception, he forgot to account for the possible results of his movements, ignored the fact that he could very well kill them both if the slightest bit of joggling triggered the waiting device.  
   
But it had been worth it, to see the abrupt halt of the brunette's damning assumptions, the familiar calm sweeping in to cover horror and misery in less time than it took to remember that there was still a clear and present danger.  
   
When the simpering voice had emerged on it's own mouth, he had been surprised by the unbidden urge to _hurt_ the person who had brought them to this, not to merely kill, but to maim, tear him asunder, or any number of equally inhumane things. It was surely this state of mind that had led him to clasp the loathsome body to himself, accepting his own grisly demise if only a second's worth of that Hell would be visited upon this monstrous parody of a human being in turn.  
   
But it was not to be.  
   
Despite his worries of unintentional detonation, Sherlock had all but ripped the offending object from him, flinging it away without a second glance at the very instant of opportunity. The fluttering drag and prod of fingers over his chest and sides was nearly ticklish, and if not for a supreme effort of will, he thought he would have dissolved into hysterical glee right then and there.  
   
The concussive burst of heat and sound had only sharpened his determination that neither of them would depart this world without the God's own intervention, and even when the younger man had sunk panic-sharpened nails into his back, he held them beneath the roiling water until he could detect no more of the initial inferno from above.  
   
Honestly, what did he care if the brunette's mouth tasted of fear and chlorine?  
   
It was the words that mattered, muttered between and during his rough exhalations into those cool lips, _damn you not yet, stay here, open your eyes and fucking **breathe** -_

   
And incredibly, the man had obeyed, eyes clouded with faint startlement and something like death denied as he greedily fed on the air left unmolested by all-consuming flame.  
   
He was too near that dark place still, so John had uttered a sound close enough to what he wanted before dragging them both up to navigate the shattered tiles, the echoes lingering for much longer than either of them intended to.  
   
XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX  
   
And sometimes.. Sometimes there were too many words.  
   
Like now, when there was barely enough space or air or coherant thought to form such things as legible speech, but in their place were dim lights, quick breaths and lingering touches that said everything and nothing because oh God hadn't they waited and craved and imagined-  
   
More than a moment without the contact of two matched halves was enough for grief, because really, who was who in this tangle of heartsong and shivering bare skin, and why would it matter?  
   
But it didn't.  
   
As long as one gave voice to something like a name, or another murmured low syllables of understanding, it was all the same _did you know how much, I needed, I wanted, I_ ** _love_**..  
   
Damn the words. They both knew this script by heart, when all that emerged were mated pleas and muffled declarations that had no place in a world they both wished were more like this, why wasn't it always this simple to have the very things that made one whole and alive and human-  
   
There was no more John Watson, no Sherlock Holmes, no colleague or brilliant freak of nature, there was only the one that could never be replaced, that you couldn't imagine living without, wouldn't _want_ to live without..  
   
And finally, no one needed what they didn't have, because they both gave and possessed everything that was the other, claims branded into scarred skin and feverish mind as if by some magic, or maybe it really was fated, even if neither one had ever held faith in the unseen?  
   
Someone was laughing, joyful and breathless, but in this dark and heated place, who had time for such things as deduction?  
   
In a word, it was _perfection_.  
   
XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

 

  
Hooray for the first attempt. Visit my archive for fic, media and more. http://asshat.0fees.net  



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